Well Dressed Men
by Min Daae
Summary: Written for Shorelle, from a prompt of "Harry Potter, Harry/Draco, fashion." I had fun with it. A little bit cracky, perhaps, but only a little. Harry is awkward, Draco is distracted.


If there was one thing you could say for Draco Malfoy, it was that he had quite the sense of style.

The traitorous thought occurred to Harry Potter one afternoon in the Great Hall, watching Malfoy sulking at the Slytherin table with his head on his arms and picking without interest at his own food, and he quickly amended it.

Oh, sure, he might be an arrogant, bigoted, disgusting little slimeball, but at least he dressed well. Continuously trim, and of course, his hair always stayed flat. Harry self consciously touched the back of his own, and scowled. Draco lifted his head, scowling prettily, and ran his fingers through his pale hair, as if mocking Harry's own attempts.

He set his bowl down with a clatter and stood up. "I'm going out," he told Ron and Hermione sharply, and stalked for the doors with a vague thought of going to the Owlery and perhaps sending a letter to…someone. Who, he wasn't quite sure.

And because he was thinking about Hedwig, he ran smack into Malfoy, who also seemed to be on his way out. Both of them staggered, and without thinking Harry reached out to catch Draco's shoulders and steady him. When he realized that he was touching his arch nemesis, he let go in a hurry and rearranged his face into a quick sneer. Draco's expression hardly changed from that same pretty scowl, blonde hair flopping fetchingly in his eyes.

Not that Harry was noticing any of this.

"Watch where you're going, Malfoy," he sneered disdainfully. Draco stared at him with vague annoyance, as though Harry were little more than a small roadblock. He seemed distracted.

"Yeah, sure," he said, and started to walk away. Harry turned after him, startled, and trying to remember the last time he'd had words with Malfoy that hadn't ended in one or both of them pulling their wands. Certainly a while. For a moment he was worried. Had Draco been hit with a bad spell or something?

Then he wondered why he was worrying. The Owlery. Right.

He'd gone almost fifteen steps before he realized that he and Draco were going the same way. What an odd coincidence. Malfoy, on the other hand, didn't seem to think so. He turned around so quickly some of his hair flopped off his forehead. Harry felt a peculiar urge to let him know, so that Draco would fix it, at least.

"Stop following me, Potter! You're like some kind of bloody _stalker._"

Harry was quite pleased with his sneer, just the right mix of contempt and spite. "Why would I want to stalk _you, _Malfoy?" He really did keep his hair very nice. And when he was annoyed the color rose brightly to his face in a very distinctive manner. It was almost charming.

"I don't know; you tell me," Draco snapped, and spun again, lengthening his stride. Harry set off again. To the Owlery, of course. And after Draco. He hadn't gone ten steps before Malfoy turned again, the blood under his pale skin even brighter.

"Bug off, Potter," he spat. Harry blinked, once. The hair was back over his eyes where it belonged; that was somehow soothing.

"I'm going to the Owlery," he said, stupidly. Draco snorted.

"A likely story. If you keep following me I'll hex you." Harry could tell he meant it, but Draco was nervous, too, fidgeting anxiously on the stairs. Harry hesitated.

"How do you do it?"

Draco stared at him suspiciously. "Intelligence isn't that hard, Potter. Just work at it a little. Maybe Granger will give you private lessons."

Harry shook his head. "No, I mean, how do you –" He stopped. "…you have a very good sense of style," he said, lamely. "I mean…you always look very. Put together."

Draco's look of utter confusion was nearly priceless, but Harry could feel himself blushing too much to care. "…you're complimenting me on my _dress, _Potter?" He sounded incredulous. "Did someone slip you something this morning?"

It occurred to Harry that he'd thought the same thing not long ago, about Draco. He drew himself up, trying to regather his dignity. (Dignity, snorted a nasty inner voice. Ha.) "I think it only fair to make sure you are aware of your strengths." He almost added that the contrast between Malfoy's hair and the black of his suit was really quite striking, but managed to decide that that was too much and managed to shut his mouth.

"And my strengths are my clothes," snorted Draco. "Thank you, Potter, for your consideration." And he turned to go again. Harry paused.

"How do you get your hair to lie flat?" He burst out. Draco turned around and stared at him in something like horror.

"What?"

"Your hair," Harry asked, feeling his face turning bright red, "It doesn't – stick up everywhere."

"Lucky genetics," Draco said, with a sneer, though he still looked disconcerted, and vanished up a stairwell. Harry stared after him and sighed.

It wasn't like it was that important. It was just that Draco Malfoy knew how to dress, that was all. Harry could appreciate a well-dressed man. A portrait on the wall sniggered, quietly, and Harry wheeled on it. "I don't want to hear it," he snapped to the well-dressed 18th century dandy. "I _don't _want to hear it."

Forgetting about the Owlery, Harry stalked back into the Great Hall, wondering if there were still any potatoes.


End file.
